


A Wish Unrealized

by purewanderlust



Series: Love, Curiosity, Freckles, and Doubt [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean visits Sam at college. It doesn't go how Sam might've hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wish Unrealized

Sam's been at school for almost five months and Stanford's not exactly what he was expecting. The classes are harder than they were in high school; the teachers less understanding, but he can handle that. What he can't seem to handle is the near-crippling loneliness. Sure, Brady's a pretty cool roommate--even offered Sam a place to stay for winter break, but. He's not  _Dean._  
  
Dean, who was roommate, brother, father, mother, best friend, and one-time lover all combined into one. Dean, who Sam loves more than anything in the world, but who he still fucked and abandoned when their mercenary existence became too unbearable.  
  
Dean, who he hasn't spoken to in four months, twenty days, and twelve hours.  
  
For the first few weeks after he'd walked out, there'd been these phone calls from a blocked number, one trilling ring before the call cut off like Dean had realized, oh yeah, he isn't speaking to his brother. Sam stopped trying to answer in time after the third call, never bothered making any calls of his own. If he's going to have this so-called normal life, he figures, he has to stop dwelling on the broken, dysfunctional excuse for one he's left behind.  
  
Sam's justifying thinking about it right now, though, because  _fuck_. Three o'clock in the morning, alone in his dorm because it's Christmas Eve and everyone else has gone home to their families. Yeah, Sam figures he's completely justified in his wallowing. He tilts his beer bottle to his lips and snorts in disgust as he finds it empty. He lets the bottle drop from his hand and watches it roll across the uneven floorboards, coming to a stop against a booted foot that Sam's ninety percent sure wasn't there before.  
  
Lightweight or not, Sam know there's no way he's gotten drunk off of one bottle of cheap beer, but that doesn't stop him staring at the boot in mild confusion for a long moment.  
  
"My eyes are up  _here_ , Sammy." says an all too-familiar voice. Sam closes his eyes, sure that sleep deprivation and depression have finally driven him to hallucinate, but when he opens his eyes again, the boot is still there, so he swallows the lump in his throat and looks up.  
  
Dean is standing right here, in his living room, leather jacket and all. Definitely, incontrovertibly real.  
  
"Dude, you're the worst host ever," his brother complains, in typical Dean fashion, "What's a guy gotta do to get a beer around here?"  
  
"Don't have any more." Sam says stupidly, still reeling from the shock of seeing Dean  _here_. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Dean bares his teeth in what Sam thinks is supposed to be a grin, but it looks more like a snarl. "Can't a guy break into his estranged brother's apartment in the middle of the night without getting the third degree?"  
  
"Dean," Sam rises, reaches for him, and stamps out the brief flare of hurt when his brother steps smoothly out of reach, "Why did you come here?"  
  
"I was in the neighborhood." Dean says airily.  
  
"And it's Christmas," Sam adds, watching the older boy's expression flicker guilty. Sam has never spent a Christmas without his brother before. "Dean..." He reaches for his brother again, and again, Dean flinches away. Sam's expecting it this time, though, and manages to get his hand around his brother's wrist and tug him forward.  
  
The effect is instantaneous. "Don't touch me!" Dean snarls, shoving him, hard. "You don't get to do that."  
  
Sam holds his hands up, placating. The last thing he wants to do is scare Dean away. "Why are you here?" He asks for the third time, voice low.  
  
Dean stares at him for a long moment, his expression faintly desperate. Then he fists his hand in Sam's shirt and yanks his brother forward. Sam flinches, expecting a punch, but it never comes. Instead, Dean crushes their mouths together with something that sounds suspiciously like a sob. It's not so much a kiss as it is a violent claim on Sam's mouth, tongue plundering and teeth nipping. Dean tastes like whiskey and nothing else, and Sam's stomach bottoms out as he realizes that his brother is very, very drunk.  
  
He tries to extract himself from Dean's grip, but only manages to get a few inches between their lips, his brother's hands still wound tight in his shirt, the unforgiving wall at his back.  
  
"Hey!" Dean protests, "Whaddaya stoppin' for? You're the one who started all this, anyway."  
  
"Dean, how much have you had to drink tonight?" Sam asks, putting every ounce of his self-control into not swaying forward to reclaim his brother's lips.  
  
"Oh my God." Dean groans. "Who do you think you are, my mother?" He snorts. "Awk-ward."  
  
"I'm just saying, you don't want to do something you might regret later." Sam points out weakly.  
  
Dean's eyes narrow. "Projecting much, Sam?"  
  
Sam jerks back like his brother hit him. "That's not true!" He hisses fiercely. "How can you even think that?"  
  
"Gee, I dunno, maybe because you fucked me and then took off across the country?" Dean sneered. "Too bad for you I woke up when I did; you almost got out without having to see my stupid face again!"  
  
Sam grabs his brother's shoulders and whips him around, changing their positions. Now Dean's the one pinned to the wall. He doesn't fight back, too drunk or too angry, just stares up at his little brother, eyes like green fire, defiant.  
  
"You  _know_  that's not true, Dean." He argues. "Dad is the one who said never come back. Don't you...just, don't, Dean."  
  
Dean doesn't say a word, expression cold and Sam feels something like despair settling under his skin. "I can prove it to you." He whispers, tilting forward and pressing their lips together again. As soon Sam's tongue slides against Dean's, his brother bites down, hard, and Sam yelps, pulling back, the familiar coppery taste of blood on his tongue.  
  
"I'm not a fuckin' charity case, Sam." Dean spits, venomously. "I don't need your pity."  
  
Sam sees red and can't stop himself from jerking Dean forward and slamming him roughly back against the wall. "Pity's got nothing to do with it. And goddamn it, you're gonna believe that once I'm done with you." He gives his brother another fierce shake for good measure and then drops to his knees, anger buzzing through his veins as potent as alcohol.  
  
Dean makes a strangled noise and tries to back away, his shoulders smacking against the wall. "Sam." He tries to sound scolding, but the shake in his voice is evident. "What're you--" Sam noses at his crotch and Dean's hands fly to his shoulders, arms tensing like he's not sure whether to push his brother away or pull him closer. "Don't."  
  
Sam looks up at him through his eyelashes, hears the sharp intake of breath and sneers. "If you really wanted me to stop, you would'a by now." He presses his open mouth over the bulge in Dean's jeans, ripping a groan from his brother's throat.  
  
"Fuck." Dean hisses, head thunking back against the wall, and Sam takes that for acquiescence. He pops the button on his brother's jeans and has the zipper halfway down before Dean catches his wrist.  
  
"Stop it, Sam." he says, voice strained. Sam tries to pull free, but Dean's fingers are tight around his wrist, so he reaches up with his left hand and tugs the zipper the rest of the way down revealing tented grey boxers.  
  
"You really want me to stop, Dean?" he whispers, wrapping his fingers clumsily around his brother, "Because it sure as hell doesn't look that way to me. This  _is_  what you came here for, isn’t it?" He runs his thumb over the head, feeling wetness soak through Dean's boxers as his brother curses and arches into his hand.  
  
"God...dammit Sam." he growls and Sam forces himself to look away from his own hand. Dean's face is pale, dark freckles standing out like constellations on his skin. His eyes are as dark as the winter sky outside, green irises completely swallowed up by blackness. "Do or don't, just fuckin' do  _something_!"  
  
Sam yanks Dean’s jeans and boxers down without further preamble, grinning when Dean’s breath hitches as the fabric grazes his sensitive cock. He feels slightly unhinged as he reaches out to stroke a finger down the length, watching Dean tense , his hands fisting in Sam’s shirt at the shoulders.  
  
“Sammy…” his brother says, voice rising into a whine as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock again. “Please.”  
  
Sam wets his lips, but he doesn’t give himself a chance to be anxious, swaying forward to suck the head of Dean’s dick into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it.  
  
Dean whimpers, hands flying to the sides of Sam’s face, trying to pull him closer, but Sam puts a gentle hand on his stomach, trying to get used to the taste and feel of Dean on his tongue before he takes more.  
  
“Sammy, please, I need--” Dean cuts himself off with a groan as Sam takes him deeper, swirling his tongue experimentally. He’s getting used to the musky flat taste of Dean, humming contentedly around his brother’s length as he decides he likes this.  
  
“Oh god.” Dean hisses, hands tightening in Sam’s hair for purchase, and Sam tilts back to get a look at him. Dean’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and he’s biting his lip so hard that it’s turning white. He’s fucking gorgeous.  
  
Sam pulls off with an obscene pop, holding Dean’s hips back against the wall when he tries to buck forward. He makes a noise of protest, and Sam squeezes his hips reassuringly. When he goes forward this time, he takes as much as he can manage, mouth stretched wide to facilitate his clumsy attempts. He feels drool building at the corners of his mouth, and when the head brushes the back of his throat, he gags and sputters, eyes watering, but Dean makes a noise like he’s dying, babbling incessantly: “oh yeah, Sammy, so fuckin’ good, baby, so g—good.”  
Sam backs off a little, pressing his tongue to the underside of his brother’s cock and Dean jolts like he’s been shocked.  
  
“So close, Sammy.” He pants, tugging at Sam’s hair. “Please, please, please.” Sam bobs forward, sucking hard enough that his cheeks hollow out and Dean’s body snaps taut under his hands and Sam glances up through his eyelashes to see his mouth fall open as his orgasm crashes over him.  
  
Sam’s so turned on that the moment the first streams of come hit the back of his throat, he’s coming too, without a hand on him. He moans, and forgets to swallow, most of Dean’s come dribbling out of his mouth, barely pulling off before his teeth click together, the rasp of denim on his own cock prolonging the sensation.  
  
Dean crumples to the floor next to his brother seconds later, pulling Sam forward into a searing kiss, tasting himself in the younger boy’s mouth and Sam whimpers, before he can stop himself.  
  
“You did so good, Sammy.” Dean murmurs, wiping his shirtsleeve over Sam’s chin, cleaning him off. “You’re perfect, baby boy.”  
  
“Mmm, Dean, ‘m tired.” Sam mumbles, swaying forward in his brother’s embrace. Dean wraps his arms around him and kisses his forehead.  
  
“I know, Sammy, shh. Let’s get you to bed.”  
  
*  
  
Sam wakes up the next morning, throat raw and aching, to find himself in bed, mostly clean, and wearing a fresh pair of boxers. He has no recollection of getting up off the floor, but his brother is nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Dean?” He rasps, stumbling out of bed and into the hallway, a plummeting feeling in his heart. Sure enough, the living room is empty, except for a crisp white envelope sitting in the middle of the coffee table. Sam picks it up and turns it over.  
  
 _Merry Christmas, bro_  Dean’s near-illegible scrawl reads on the back. When Sam opens the envelope, a huge stack of twenties fans out into his hands. He stands there for a long minute, staring at the money, and then he throws the envelope back down on the table and goes for his phone.  
  
 _We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected, or is no longer in service. Please hang up and try your call again._  A cool automated voice tells him, like she’s unaware that she her message is ripping him apart.  
  
“God  _dammit_ , Dean!” Sam roars, flinging his phone away. It smashes into pieces against the wall and he drops onto the couch and puts his head in his hands.  
  
And there, for the first time since he left home, alone in his apartment on Christmas morning, Sam Winchester breaks down and cries.


End file.
